Messiness
by Hetfield'sHair
Summary: When the whole world goes to hell around you, who would you expect to show kindness? Rated M, as, wars are typically not family friendly.


Glancing at your watch, you cleared your throat, and looked to your superior. He was lecturing you and your battalion over the exact number of ways you would and could die today, should you stray far from his orders, with deadpan seriousness and detail. Though most of you knew it was all bullshit thought up to rile and rouse the troops, you couldn't help being a bit worried. Your name is John Egbert, formally Second-Lieutenant Jonathan R. Egbert, and you're supposed to be flying your first raid since you were released from the hospital today. During a time when Pilots averaged Six-Hours of life, you wished the coma kept you longer, about now. You were as gleeful as one could get when news of your plane being improperly fueled forced you to stay grounded until the next raiding party was ready, The informant ushering the information to you quietly before scampering off to bug some other poor soul.

You watched a small company of your friends board their individual- and sometimes shared- Biplanes, A few unlucky souls forced into reconnaissance within a squadron of Halberstadt Scouting Planes. Their proximity to the ground would be the death for many, and, you were sure that they felt the same way. The rest were assigned into various production models of Fokker Eindeckers, armed with One or Two MG08 Machine guns that would malfunction in a heartbeat. A frown burrowed into your features as they began to take off, one by one, watching undoubtably good men head to their likely doom. It wasn't until a full hour had passed that the next patrol was to take flight, from the roster your name echoing above the rest.

"...Second-Lieutenant Egbert!" You craned your neck up with a silent crack, flashing your once more permenant smile to the commanding officer as you sat up, and rose to your feet. The audible squish of the damp ground beneath you was heard in between the droning of propellers, And, after much waiting, were helped into your Aircraft. You were disappointed that you weren't flying, but, you had faith in your Pilot, A man- boy, really- known for running his mouth. He lied his way into the luftstreitkräfte, and everyone knew it, but his ability to keep a craft aloft was undoubted around the place. You hadn't caught his name, so, you figured you had to ask him. After a droll monologue about your curiosity, he caved, and spoke "Kankri Vantas." As if defeated. You told him yours in return, and said it was nice to properly meet. His own paragraph-sounding response was drowned out by the spin of the propeller, your vessel skidding across the dirt until it Rose to the skies.

You gently tugged the bolt on your MG08/14 back, the racket of loading a shell hardly present amongst the wind. Cool air blew into your face when you turned around, leaning upon your Firing Piece to speak once more to the man balancing your lives, Gun tilting up slightly. "Say, you haven't really said much, chap. You ought to open up a little more! Better to know the man keeping us safe, eh?" You joked on the matter, and he never once looked away from the horizon. It was a moment until he spoke, but, your wait was not in vain. "Yes, I do suppose it would be polite of me to properly introduce myself in some way. I sincerely apologize if I had offended you in some way by abstaining from speech for the past quarter-hour, for, I've been told that I speak a bit much. Not that it is anything to be measured by a mere few people, as, too much is highly subjective- but. I'm getting off topic. As you might have heard earlier, My name is Kankri Vantas, formally known as Lance-Corporal Kankri H. (Meaning Hailfax, Though, I suppose whispering won't change much) Vantas. To spare you any further potentially boring details, I had joined the luftstreitkräfte to aid in spotting missions, after we received a note that my dear brother was missing in action. I do believe he went missing only a year ago."

You had nearly found yourself stargazing as he piled information atop your well-buried cadaver, Managing a nod as you further absorbed the information. "Geez. Aren't you worried about him? I know I'd be worried if I hadn't spoken to Jade in a year." You spoke as if he already knew you, in attempt to remove the akwardness, the name of your adopted sister tumbling out with the rest of your vague concern. He muttered something into his scarf, that of which you believe even the universe didn't want to you hear. The garment blew wildly in the skies, his Goggles narrowly protecting his eyes. You wish you had taken some yourself, but, before you could dream any further, you turned back around, hair attempting to fly over your eyes.

After resting a while longer, the distant thud of a QF-1 began to pound in your ears. _Pom! Pom!_ The noise resonated, as further shots rung out neither hitting nor missing any plane near you. The shrapnel did little to even the Biplanes of wood and canvas, though, you had become far more alert when a shell struck-dead into a fighter far above, the whole assembly erupting into flames and the pieces scattering the air. Your nerves began to rack you, helplessness settling in. Kankri spoke calmly of "Nearing Warplanes," and warned you to take aim should they reach us. Your weapon was hoisted up on its mount, watching to your left as another shell scored a direct hit, though not detonating until it had safely passed through the wing and cleared the plane. Stray rounds from Rifle-caliber weapons began to whizz by, striking wings and fuselages with little effect. The buzz of hostile propellers distracted you again.

They smashed through your formation, narrowly missing for the most part, until one clipped your wing and sent the outermost quarter off. The smaller man in control of your vessel hissed and struggled to correct it, asking you to try a little harder, in his own words. You rested your finger on the trigger of your machine gun and opened up on a passing plane, every shot missing due to faulty aim, it stabilizing out to get on your tail. It dipped down and you followed, the thunderous roar of your automatic weapon splitting the silence of dull shots elsewhere. You tore their landing skid by mere luck, and did nothing else as it curved back up. Another volley was projected into it at the last moment, it too spraying hot lead in your area. The fire didn't cease until you clipped the Pilot in the Jaw, sending the plane twirling to demise. Your wings and rudder were torn apart, the flight becoming even more shaky as shellfire began to focus on you. Shrapnel peppered your leather jacket at low velocities, doing nothing more than frightening you into ducking down.

One round detonated far too close, your plane flipping on its axis momentarily as you struggled to stay inside. You felt a panic, and checked on your pilot, a hand held up to the side of his head as Blood streamed down onto his aviator's jacket. With one hand on the primitive guiding stick, he kept you aloft, nursing his wound and comforting himself dryly. He shook feverishly, And you felt horrible. You felt _sick_ to your core, and you detached the Ammunition Containing Drum from the side of your weapon. Reaching down into the cockpit, you fetched another, placing the Magazine on the hopper and tapping it with your fist. After all of this way, you had begun to pass over the enemy lines, Rifle fire beginning to pick your planes off left and right. You scrabbled for your camera, and held it over the rim of your turret, snapping pictures at whatever looked Important. You hurriedly dropped the contraption back into your lap, as the plane began to turn back around, only a handful of the original planes left alive, and the ones intact being hunted by Sopwiths and Brisfits. One by one they were plucked from the air, your front facing directly at the Anti-Aircraft Fire as you flew home.

A plane caught onto your tail at breakneck speed, a hail of fire raining down upon you and quickly stripping away at the hull. You grabbed the grip of your weapon and, before even getting a lock, had started firing, an inaccurate volley hammering at the plane behind you. The cool air helped to stop your barrel from overheating, a few of your own rounds catching your rudder assembly amidst the firefight. Your engine began to sputter and the plane slowed, the enemy hovering over you and unleashing one more volley, before diving down. Two shots caught you in the torso, a hand shooting to cover the beelding holes. You gasped, releasing the Machine Gun and lying back. You whispered, " _I'm hit."_ And Kankri spoke; "Ditto." He asked if you were alright, and you couldn't spill the word "No," quickly enough. He assured you that you would be fine, but you repeated yourself, shaking your head, and saying it even thrice until you droned off. Kankri told you that you were safe now, that the fire had stopped, though you couldn't manage through the pain.

Neither rounds punched through, and they remained in your stomach, a rib shattered and liver punctured. The Camel dawned behind you once more, and you reached out to hold your Gun. You couldn't reach the trigger, and couldn't sit up. He closed upon you, slowly, awaiting your demise and trying to warn Kankri. He said that the plane would crash if he tried to dodge. Saying your prayers, you awaited. Until down swept a Fokker , a barrage of shots striking the enemy and sending it down. The maneuver unfortunately caused the ally himself to hit the ground before he could pull up, a pang of guilt tearing at you even with the sepsis causing you inconceivable amounts of pain. You dropped the Grip and your weapon clanked against metal, eyes falling shut as your return home became evident.

You never got to rest, the plane jerking as you touched down, Gears dislocating as the plane skidded into the mud. The propeller shot off, deflected into the air, fuel draining rapidly. You felt arms wrap around your midsection and someone struggled to pull you out, the plane erupting to flames as you slid onto the mud. Your eyes opened with blurriness in them, managing to glimpse at the black sky and fiery wrecks. You weren't home yet. He shook you awake, And you gasped, tilting your head back to look into his Crimson Eyes. Lying against the cold mud, he kneeled aside you, A Revolver in clutch.

"Please... Get up, Egbert. We have to go. There isn't enough time- they'll, they'll be here in minutes! Can't you walk- oh, oh dear. Please..." He shed his calm demeanor, struggling to pull you through the mud. You couldn't find the energy, even when your life was at stake, the Young man managing to pull you into a pillbox. It was cracked open, though provided some cover. He sat you against the wall, patting your shoulder and wiping his eyes with his sleeves. He was bleeding heavily from his wounded ear and neck, though it had largely clotted. He crouched back down, a hand on the concrete rubble as he peered over it. It was hard to make out who was coming, but he guessed The British. Watching as they approached the wreckage, he tried to guess the armament. Two of the five had Webley & Scott Revolvers, the others with rifles. Gas masks helped them to look even more sinister. You watched him, staring, weapon in hand, though it was barely fitting.

You heard a shout in a foreign language, heart pounding out of your chest when Kankri sank back down. He pointed his Firearm to the doorway, awaiting certain demise. The crunch of feet against mud and rubble drew ever closer, until it stopped. Whispers plagued the air, and the soldiers started to pass. Things would be okay. But, as they passed, he seemed to lose all sanity. Springing up, The Vantas fired twice, one shot missing, and the other striking a man in the neck. Before he could fire again, a shot hit his flank, A soldier behind the others awaiting the ambush. Kankri spun out, falling to his knees for a mere moment, before a fist connected with his jaw and he fell down. They didn't notice you, the Wounded Aviator writhing beneath them as his wrists were effortlessly grabbed and bound above his head. They wrestled him to the floor, and kept him still, intent on capturing the boy alive.

The man questioned him in His native tongue, Recieving no answer. Tears streamed down Kankri's face and he _didn't have the energy to respond._ They showed no remorse, and asked again, your own heart pounding out of your chest as you awaited. He shut his eyes and a silent sob shook him, silence befalling you all. You couldn't follow orders like this. An unsteady exhale fell from your lips, thee soldiers turning to face you. He reached up to peel his mask off, the apparatus swinging to one side of his face. He reached to take the gun from Kankri's hand, and rose to his feet. He unloaded it, and dropped it. The weapon thudded to the ground, and he reached to help him up. The others watched, from all sides, and he stumbled back and near you. He stood there, perhaps for a while, and maybe even longer.

The man placed his hands on his hips, and sighed. That you understood. He pointed back towards your lines, and no one stopped him. Kankri reached down to pull your light body off the floor, slinging you partially over his shoulder and stumbling out. He began his March, and you coughed in pain. He spoke, calmly, as you set off, your body shaking gently with each step Kankri took. He was American, you figured.

"Go home, son. This ain't no boy's war."


End file.
